


Good for something, at least.

by walmartAU



Series: Bad Dog’s Dadbod Bro Blog Blowjob [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse, Conditioning, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-07 09:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walmartAU/pseuds/walmartAU
Summary: Noct is a fish out of water. Titus has woven the net.





	Good for something, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Flash oneshot of AU where General Glauca keeps Noctis after attacking Tenebrae and raises him, eventually grooming him into a personal sex slave.
> 
> Please read the tags and prompt for content warning. Written in response to a kinkmeme prompt requesting any!master/sex-slave!Noct:
> 
> https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=10009739#cmt10009739

He’s been good. He tries his best to behave. He’s eager at the General’s feet in the morning, invisible there in the evening. When the General is out, he straightens the room and wipes down the surfaces, cleans and organizes, anything to be of use. When the General returns, he’s waiting, in position.

Sometimes he’s sent on errands as reward and permitted to wear a uniform, or given food the General hasn’t yet touched. He sleeps at the foot of the General’s bed, now. It’s more than he could ask for. It’s more than he should hope for. So he tries his best to be good, and fool that he is, hopes anyway. He always listens. He listens to what goes unsaid, too, and carefully picks his way around it.

He doesn’t talk back, much.

The General still punishes him. He always finds something. Sometimes it’s the dust on the General’s shoes, the unforgivable evidence of a thought he can’t keep from flicking across his face. Whatever it is to keep him in his place. He usually takes it over the General’s lap, and sometimes in his bed. He doesn’t cry out, unless that’s what the General wants tonight.

That’s what the General wants tonight. But the General never wants to know it’s a performance. He wants him to keep still and silent until he can’t anymore. And when he can’t anymore, he’ll earn another for not keeping still and silent. He knows the drill.

“That bastard, bloodthirsty king of Lucis,” the General growls, as he brings the flat of a blade down against Noct’s bare back.

Noct, grimacing at the carpet, mouths the words to himself. _First, he abandons his people…_

“First he abandons his _people_ , then he abandons his _son_ , and now–“

Always the same. When his- when the King pisses the General off back home, he’s waiting in Niflheim to take the heat. Lately, the King’s been pissing the General off something fierce. It'd been a while since he hit him with anything but a hand, up until the last few weeks. He’s been good. Mostly.

He feels it when the General finally draws blood, just before wet confirmation seeps out down his side. That’s his cue. Or at least, that’s when he usually decides to start talking, if he’s held out to this point. He’s not supposed to put on an act when taking punishment, but he’s not stupid, either.Noct already knows it’s gonna be a bad one tonight. He’s sleeping on the floor, air for meals, at minimum.

Noct squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the stripes of the General’s affections, fire across his thighs and back, the inescapable iron of his grip. He lets himself exhale in pain at the next blow, sob on the second, shout the third. Pretty soon, he’s a mess in the General’s lap, and the General still isn’t satisfied.

He knows what that means, too. What the General’s waiting for. But it’s that much harder to do what he’s supposed to do after he’s let himself go a bit, gotten caught up in the moment, let the tears start coming. He can feel the hard cap of the General’s knee and soft cushion of his coverlet, he’s going mad pinched between. The fear that soon he’ll be unable to walk, unable to obey his orders and risk days more of this on end, again, is what finally snaps him out of it.

“Please, sir,” he gasps at the General’s boot. “Mercy.”

“You forget your place,” the General says, not slowing, and Noct shakes and trembles in his grip.

“I can’t take any more. It hurts. Please, master.”

After he’s resorted to the honorific, the General dumps him on the ground and Noct just lays there, burning. His legs have turned to jelly. This is as bad as it’s been in a long time. He hopes this is it.

“You’ve been obstinate enough. Disgusting animal. No better than the beast that sired you.”

He’s scrabbling to drag himself into a kneeling position for gratitude when the General’s kick knocks him back down, a streak of bones and bruises spilled across the rug. “Master, I’m sorry,” he says automatically, tasting sand. “I’m sorry, I’ll–”

“You know what this means."

Fear seizes him like the fist of Shiva. “Gods,” he says, gripping the General’s boot, pressing his face into it, into the floor. If his freshly-beaten legs could support enough to reach up, he’d be undoing the General’s belt. He tries anyway. “Please, no, I’ve been good, don’t put m–" 

“How _dare_ you lay a hand on your master,” the General says icily. Noct snatches his hands back. “Have you learned nothing? Would anyone else tolerate such disobedience? Have I not been too generous, teaching a dog like you to behave?”

He’s hauled up by the shabby collar at his neck, dragged across the room. Noct forgets himself as he runs out of air, grabs for it blindly. It cuts into the groove under his chin.

The General doesn’t acknowledge this transgression, too busy flinging open the squat closet door to throw Noct inside. He lands, choking, on his face, and by the time he’s back up on his knees, the General’s slammed the door shut. He hears the lock click. Noct rests his forehead against the chafe of the wood, too sore to sit back. He knows better than to knock.

When he first came, he used to pound and scream and plead until his voice gave out. He knows better than to keep begging, too. But he can’t yet stem the desperate whisper in his throat.

 

* * *

 

 

It starts after the fire. 

For he doesn’t even know how long, he hasn’t left his bed. He still has physical therapy twice a week, and sees Luna, and Umbra and Pryna, and sometimes Ravus. If it weren’t for the soldiers in the house, escorting them to and fro, (the charred-up stumps and temple, Dad's absence,) he wouldn’t notice a difference day-to-day. It’s almost like nothing changed, even though Luna’s mom’s gone. Forever.

Unlike his dad, who could come back. They don’t talk about it. He sees it in her face, hanging in the sky above his head, in the gaps in their conversations. Because any day now, he might get back what she’s already lost, and there’s nothing he can do to fix that. He stops taking from Luna. It leaves him alone with the guilt.

He only has flashes of it left – it feels like his earliest memory, but he’s not even sure, at this point, whether he made it up. Shouting, Ravus stumbling like he’d been slapped. Artificial safety, strong arms surrounding him, pressed to a racing, beating chest. A metal giant falling from the sky. The taste of smoke that burned down his nose. Last, a split second of the whole world turning over underneath him, flames, a clear glimpse of his dad’s face as he falls, falls, falls. He doesn’t remember the expression. 

He dreams a new one every night, when he’s still living it over and over. Sometimes his dad looks so old and afraid, and reaches out for him. Sometimes his dad is disappointed, and just watches him fall.

Luna has nightmares, too. Who-knows-how-long later, after he’s walking again, they finally admit it. Soon, Ravus enlists, and Luna’s lost even more, and their dreams join everything else they stop sharing.

And then Luna leaves to be Oracle, and he remains. He’s growing up, but he finds it hard to keep track without Luna’s holiday cards. He talks to himself, to Carbuncle, paces an empty room with an MT outside for company. He stops talking at all, for a time. Sometimes he's given a book, or a puzzle, never a newspaper.

The General comes back.

On his first visit, the armor casts a daemonic shadow through his room. Noct has his hands buried in the comforter, is shrinking against the headboard before he even realizes what he’s doing.

The first thing he says is, “I’m so sorry, Noctis.”

Noct is already raising the candle-holder from under his pillow, but the shock of it is enough to buy Glauca time, shutting the door behind. Noct flinches and swings his makeshift weapon at the bright light of the General’s transformation. When his eyes squint back open, Titus is sitting beside the bed, one hand keeping Noct’s arm from the strike. The candlestick has fallen to the floor. Titus is General Glauca.

Of course he says, “Titus?” because his whole brain has turned to static.

“If only you didn’t have to learn this way,” Titus, who is General Glauca, says, resting a hand on his shoulder. Noct is pulled close to him. “Noctis, your father has refused every offer we’ve given him for your release.”

“My dad?”

“Some things a king deems more important than blood,” Titus says it so casually, like he’s not surprised at all. Noct remembers, when he was little, Titus coming over. Talking to his dad. His friend. He’d taught Noct how to roll his sleeves back. Now he’s the first person to talk to Noct in an eternity. He’s talking now. “Still, it must come as a shock. First, he abandons his people, now, he abandons his son.”

Noct stares at his hands. He doesn’t know if it’s a shock.

Titus keeps visiting him. He keeps Noct updated; they’re trying to negotiate, but his dad won’t listen. He holds Noct once, when it’s all too much and Noct asks for it. It’s short, but for a minute, Noct remembers feeling real and safe. He still doesn’t understand what it all means, but he asks whatever he’s allowed to. He’s been alone for so long. When he’s polite, Titus praises him. When he’s rude, Titus leaves and doesn’t come back for weeks. He feels out the rules of this. Noct’s questions are ever more brief, more cautious, though their conversations grow longer. He does his best, but he’s never been great at impulse control.

One day, Titus says, “You’ve been placed in my custody.”

He isn’t allowed to bring his books along. Noct hides Carbuncle down his sock. He’s herded into a van, then a drop ship. He falls asleep on the way.

It was short notice, Titus doesn’t have space for him, so he moves into Titus’s room with all zero of his belongings. There are no windows. At night, he curls as close to the edge of the bed as he can, a gulf between he and Titus, and the larger man’s snoring bulk radiates a forest-fire heat that keeps him up all night.

Not much changes for the first month or so. He’s still alone all day, he’s still in a room, there’s still a guard on the door. He still talks to Titus, who only lives there on the weekend. It’s more time together than before. During the day, he looks through Titus’s drawers, paces in and out of the ensuite. But then he asks a bad question, and Titus puts him in the closet for an hour.

When the door opens again, Noct is shaking while Titus pulls him out into his lap, grasping his face in both hands. Titus’s thumbs brush by the corners of his eyes. 

“Why do you make me do this, Noctis?” he says, gently. Noct doesn’t know it yet, but it’s the last time he uses his name.

“I’m sorry,” Noct says, for the first time, clinging to Titus. “I didn’t mean it. I’ll stop.”

Titus deposits him on the carpet. “Will we hold our tongue from now on?”

“Yeah, yes, I will. I promise. Please don’t make me go in there again,” Noct says, and Titus patiently agrees.

It doesn’t last long. He says the wrong thing again. This time Titus doesn’t let him out until his throat is sore and burning with thirst, and he gratefully sips from the cup Titus leaves by the sink.

The third time, it’s when he knocks over Titus’s glass at dinner. He can’t stop his brain in the dark, even though he’s trying not to think about anything. He hears himself breathing and he hears the door open and close, the stamping of boots in and out, in and out. He runs his fingers over Carbuncle’s ears. When Titus returns to release him, the front of his shorts are wet.

Titus is disappointed, but he takes the time to undress Noct and help him clean up, weak as he is from hunger and the closet. Noct remembers to say thank you, thank you, sorry, sorry, sorry.

He doesn’t get his clothes back. It’s only them two in the room, so Titus lends him an undershirt, and he tugs it as low as it’ll go. Noct is afraid to ask, but he finally gathers the courage. Titus says quite reasonably that they’re still in the wash. Then he just seems to forget about them. Days go by. Noct is still afraid of the closet, but he’s more afraid that if he keeps this up Titus won’t put up with him anymore. He still tries to do what Titus wants, to be a good conversation partner. He pretends to sleep when the maid comes in. When the maid doesn’t come, he starts picking up around the General’s quarters for want of something to do. He boils with shame when they’re sitting for a meal, him in only Titus’s undershirt, and it slips up or slips down every time he reaches over the table.

One day, he wakes up and Titus is leaning over him. He says, “Your laundry arrived."

He’s holding Carbuncle.

Noct’s whole chest feels like acid.

Titus seizes the front of his shirt and yanks and Noct hits the floor, scooting backwards, trying to get away. His shoulder bumps into the nightstand and the lamp knocks into the wall. He freezes in place at the sound. Titus’s bare feet come to rest before him.

“I forgot." It sounds fake even to him.

“Your own father cast you out,” Titus says. The miniature Carbuncle is fragile in his fist, and Noct can’t look away from it. “I took you in. Now, I find you’ve been hiding things. Lying.” 

“I didn’t mean to, I forgot it was in there, I’ve been, I’m,”

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Anything,” Noct says. “I’ll do whatever you want, I messed up, I’ll make it up, just let me try.”

“Very well,” Titus says, and Noct loses shirt privileges in exchange for his freedom.

He can't seem to earn them back. If he asks directly, he isn’t punished outright, but Titus is disappointed. He needs to be able to trust him again, needs Noct to be honest with him, and this matter doesn’t inspire confidence. He can’t just _give_ Noct everything he wants, after all. He has a responsibility to raise him properly. After the third time, Noct gets a belt to the palms for good measure.

When Titus is away, Noct spends most of his time in bed, hiding beneath the covers, sleeping as many hours as he can. Titus still insists he stand at attention upon the General’s return, glances him up and down while Noct shrivels inside at the look. They still have dinner together, like everything’s normal, until one night Noct spills the sauce and Titus tells him to clean it up.

Noct reaches across his plate, and Titus interrupts him, patiently drawing the napkin away. “We don’t waste food,” he says. Noct stares at him, disbelieving, but Titus only gestures at the puddle on the table.

He’s not going to out-wait him. And he’s not going in the closet again. Watching Titus as a mouse would a cat, Noct licks it up, pretending not to cringe at the glass on his tongue.

Titus pulls the same thing at breakfast. Noct knows what’s going on, even though he still can’t sort out which are the penalties he’s brought upon himself. Titus tells him he deserves every one, and he’s starting to believe it. He's pulled in close in bed at night. Noct lies awake in Titus’s arms, listening to snores blow his hair against his ear, hating the part of him that sleeps better for it. Eventually, he drifts off. Noct wakes up to the jab of Titus’s morning wood. Sometimes wakes to his own. He’s frozen in place, every night, every morning, waiting for it to finally happen. Titus never does more than sleep.

Days are marked by waking and sleeping. He forgets something, or spills something, or speaks not when spoken to, he accepts a consequence for his misbehavior and sinks under Titus’s frown. Greater errors begin to be corrected with Titus’s fist, or an hour in the closet, or both. When he loses chair privileges, Titus hand-feeds him from the table. Mealtimes change. Now that he sits on the floor at his heels, Titus talks more, is freer with word of the outside world that Noct is so hungry for. He’s happier spending the time this way. He hates himself. 

The General is like two different people, angry Titus and kind Titus, terrifying General Glauca and stern, honorable captain of the Glaive. He’s vicious when he speaks of Noct’s father, but so often so kind to Noct. More patient than Noct merits. He sets Noct a training schedule, exercises he can do in the room. He has high standards. Noct strives to meet them, thankful that at last he has something productive to spend his days pursuing. When he comes up short, he dreams and daydreams about fire, falling down, and wakes up safely in Titus's arms.

Noct knows it’s not right, obviously, not all of it. In the back of his head, he knows. But it’s what he’s got left and he’s trying to make what he can of himself. When he messes up, it eats away at him.

Titus compliments him when he’s done well. He runs his fingers through Noct’s hair. Noct soaks up the sound of his voice.

One morning, Noct wakes, and Titus’s knee is resting on his chest.

Noct has a moment of deja vu and flinches. Titus’s cock is above his mouth. He’s seen it enough times, by now he feels it in some fashion every morning, but from this angle, in this pose, it makes him afraid. He can’t move a muscle.

Titus knows, he can see it. He doesn’t move. Titus masturbates over his face without a word. Noct is the first to look away, shutting his eyes to the man’s groan and a string of fire that slices his face in half.

Titus doesn’t let him wipe it off. They take breakfast as usual, Titus passing down his leftovers. Noct feels it cool and dry and crack as he chews. The instant Titus leaves for the day, he rushes to the bathroom and scrubs his forehead raw.

When Titus sees, he strikes Noct across the mouth. Noct has to make up for his defiance by sitting still and asking politely for more, which he does through gritted teeth, thinking only of the alternatives. This time Titus spurts on his bare chest, wiping his dick on Noct’s stiff nipple. Noct looks down at it, and bites his tongue.

The next morning, in an effort to act ahead, he lowers himself beside Titus’s chair without prompting. Rather than eating, Titus grabs for his hair with one hand. Instead of petting him, drags Noct between his legs.

He’d be an oaf not to have seen it coming, especially after yesterday. Noct doesn’t realize he’s pulling back until he’s dragged forward again, and Titus’s cock bumps the back of his throat. He retches and heaves around it, but doesn’t throw up. He forgets himself; asks for it to stop, Titus, a stifled plea through his nose. The sound and feel only makes Titus harder between his teeth. Titus’s hand stills his shaking head as it convulses around his cock. When he’s ready, he yanks it out, jerks off onto Noct again while he coughs and coughs at his feet. 

This is the beginning of his new place. 

Twice daily, sometimes more, Titus uses him for his hands or mouth. If he does something that feels good, Titus is appreciative. He learns fast. When they’re on round three and nothing he tries will get the man hard, Titus shakes him, asks why does he always make this so difficult on himself. Noct doesn’t know, doesn’t know. 

Noct gets caught touching himself in the bathroom, which itself was awful enough. He doesn’t know what came over him. Titus bends him over the bed and stretches him out with careless fingers. He still hasn’t fucked him, but this is becoming the new thing. Titus eases the blunt taper of a plug inside him before bed, keeping him open. Noct presses his face to the pillow and holds himself still as death. The feeling of something alien inside him turns his stomach.

He fantasizes about someone walking in on them, witnessing what Titus is doing, but can’t picture whose face they might wear.

When Titus comes in his mouth, he gags and spits it out on the floor. Titus wrenches his ear and drags his nose through it, makes him lick it up. He’s thrown in the closet overnight with nothing for company but the taste. 

He has to earn back his place on the bed, every day, and it’s so easy to lose. He learns to be greedy for it. He waits by the door, heels digging into his bare ass. Titus talks to him at these times, only while buried down his throat, fingers scratching rough little strokes through his hair, tells him how well he’s made for this. 

Noct laps up the words like Titus’s spend. Sometimes he even gets hard, but Titus never touches him there. He showers twice a day, because Titus needs to know he’s at all times meticulously clean. He falls asleep between Titus’s legs with his mouth full, duvet heavy over his head. 

It’s his best night’s sleep in years. Whatever this makes him, he’s sick.

He knows what it makes him.

 

* * *

 

 

Titus has a guest over for dinner.

Noct’s just leaning into his touch when there’s a knock on the door. Titus actually gets up and answers it, and Noct stays in his place, bristling with anxiety like an ill-mannered cat. It takes him a beat after the door opens to jump up, looking around for somewhere to hide, something to cover himself with at least.

Titus snaps his fingers in Noct’s direction. “Sit down,” he says.

He’s no stranger to nudity at this point; Titus hasn’t allowed him a scrap in weeks. But he's never been in front of someone else.

Noct doesn’t move. His hands are covering his privates. The plug’s stretching him open, he knows. He can’t even look at the guest’s face. 

“Shy, are we?” says the guest, backing him into a wall.

Noct is waking up into a whole new level of Titus’s weird interests, and he can’t even process that this is actually happening. That someone else is really here, they’re both looking at him, and they’re acting like this is normal.

The guest grips his chin in a hand and turns his face this way and that. Noct cringes under his touch, but the guest actually appears to approve. Noct is intimately aware of the fact that he has a line of Titus’s cum crusted atop his thighs, and the stranger, by contrast, has overdressed extravagantly.

“Aren’t you a sight,” the guest says. He forces Noct to face him. He looks older than Titus, unshaven with unbrushed red hair to his shoulders. His teeth are unnaturally straight.

“A work in progress,” says Titus.

The guest lets go of Noct’s chin, and Noct takes a full step away. His ankle bumps into the coat rack’s base. “I’ve always been fond of this story,” the guest says. “To think – a princess hidden away in your tower, brushing out her hair, with nary a window in sight.”

“Settle down, Izunia. You'll have your fun later.”

“Titus, what’s going on?” Noct says. He almost thinks he might cry any second, but his voice doesn’t waver. He’s practiced, after all, at carefully neutral questions. The guest - Izunia - is still staring him down with that lazy smile.

“Quiet.” Titus eases out the unused second chair at his table. He points to his own. “Back in your place.”

Izunia, meanwhile, is backing him all the way into the coat rack. Noct smells Titus from the folds of a jacket cradling his head. His shoulders come up to his ears when the man leans in close. Noct keeps his mouth shut, breathing through his nose.

“Didn’t you hear your dear master?” Izunia whispers.

He stays for dinner and then bids farewell. Noct is a statue on his knees while they eat, Titus's fingers back in his hair. Titus checks his chest, compliments the progress he's making on his figure. For the first time, under Izunia’s hungry eye, he's ashamed to be proud.

At the end of the meal, Titus makes him offer. He can hardly choke the words out, but Izunia leaves without once using Noct after all. And instead of the closet, he sleeps in the bed again. Titus makes no mention of his earlier indiscipline. Noct can't stop playing the Chancellor's visit over and over in his head. He sleeps with Titus softening on his tongue.

The next day Titus snaps the collar on him. It’s black like his hair, a cheap, ugly nylon, the clasp mass-produced plastic, but even when he’s alone Noct doesn’t dare touch it. Titus introduces him to it by shutting off his windpipe while fucking his face. Noct throws up in the toilet after he leaves. He stares himself in the mirror when he rinses out his mouth. He doesn’t know the gaunt man looking back. He hasn’t had a haircut since the General lost his laundry, and his hair’s almost past his jaw. The collar hangs loose at his throat.

This is also when Titus has him start saying _Master_. It tastes foul but, having grown good at obeying orders, he manages to spit it out. When Titus sees the bare disgust in his eyes, Noct’s back in the closet. He comes out simpering, and no longer shrinks from using the word.

Titus rewards him by ruining his virgin ass. First he has to beg. Then he has to hide his face. Titus holds him down and doesn’t slow. Crying silent stains into the pillowcase, Noct is certain he’s splitting in two.

It’s worst the first time. It becomes part of the routine, Titus just as likely to request either hole. Noct gets hard when he drives it into his prostate. He still doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Chastisements for the slightest misstep grow more severe the longer he’s supposed to have known better.

Izunia doesn’t return, but Titus starts taking him along to meetings. He’s dressed as a foot soldier while out and about at the General’s heel. The stiff collar of the Niflheim infantry uniform covers Titus’s, at least until some middle-aged colonel with a half-melted dick has him unzipped over the table. He’s not to wear anything more underneath.

Sometimes Titus wants to show off his body, so he has him stand guard outside the door rather than wait on the bed. He’s left stuffed full of Titus’s seed for the day. The other guards have never so much as looked at him before, and he doesn’t know if it’s professionalism or knowledge of the General’s tastes that holds them back. Noct speaks as little as possible as a rule. One time, though, there’s a new guy who keeps trying to make small talk. He tells Noct his name as they’re changing shifts. It takes Noct a second to realize he’s meant to respond like a person.

“Uh,” he says, scrambling. It’s the first time he’s had more conversation than _Please,_ or _Harder,_ or _Yes, master_ in - he doesn’t even know. He parrots what the Niff officers call him. “Lucian.”

“Bit on-the-nose, don’t you think?” The guy’s smiling at him, and Noct’s waiting to be told to kneel. But then he takes off for the day, tossing Noct a salute, and that’s all.

For these rare liberties, Noct is so, so grateful. It’s not enough, but he does his best to show it with his body as he swallows the General down. He wakes the General with his hole. It’s in trying to show the depths of his affection that he forgets himself and cries out for _Titus_ on one night at the end of his cock, hands curled against the older man’s chest hair.

Titus actually apologizes as he swings the lash. Noct drips red and white, dead weight on the rug of the closet. The General lets him out to piss, but has him do it on all fours in the shower. He’s put back in another night.

Despite all this, Noct tries again. He tries to be good. The General loves to hear him beg, when he’s earned it. He works his way back up to small freedoms. The General goes back to lending him out. Noct stays on his good side, as much as he can. But sometimes, the King just pisses him off.

So again and again, Noct finds himself alone in the dark.

 

* * *

 

 

One morning the General comes back holding a thick black ring of steel. Staring at it, Noct’s first instinct is to wonder how it’s ever going to fit inside him. Instead, it replaces the dirty old pet accessory he’s been kept in all this time. After the shiny new collar is sealed, heavy against his collarbone, Noct washes the General’s feet with his tongue.

His nipples and cockhead are pierced to match, and the General delights in replacing them with progressively larger jet-black rings, moving just quickly enough to be painful. After meetings and at higher-up events, they’re prodded and tugged on as he’s passed around the room.

The General grows angrier than ever, and hardly spares Noct a glance on his way in and out. He’s occupied by meetings and visitors, leading up to some meeting in Lucis. Noct’s returned to fill guard roster gaps in the meantime, with a fresh haircut and a new set of duties. 

There’s a new guard who hasn’t used him before. They spend a full shift standing side-by-side in silence, fully clothed. It reminds Noct of the guard who’d asked his name, aeons ago now - one in a faceless sea of masters with the General’s blessing to lay claim to him at will. 

This guy doesn’t talk as much, but working with him is just bizarre. Noct spends the morning attuned totally to the bored-looking guard, waiting for the cue to drop to the ground. By midday, confused, he stands at attention while the guard actually walks off for a restroom break instead of just pissing down Noct’s throat like everybody else. 

Noct receives an explanation for the odd behavior at shift change. Just as he starts in the direction of his master’s quarters, he overhears the man making small talk with his relief.

“Kid’s quiet, huh?”

“Who, the Lucian?”

“That’s just Glauca’s bitch,” the guy who took over for Noct says. “Here, I’ll show you. Hey! Pisspot! Get back here!”

“Don’t let the General hear you calling it that,” the first one says with a laugh.

Noct turns around.

The new guy plays with his nipple rings in fascination, pulling at the fat metal loops and dropping them to bounce against Noct’s chest. They each take turns with his face. Noct moans into a mouthful of one guy’s sweaty sack, arching to show off his ass when the hand gripping his hair twists painfully.

“That’s it, pretty bitch,” the man says.

“Thank you, sir,” Noct replies, dragging wet lips off his cock.

After the third one’s had his go, Noct remains on the tile, jacket open, as he listens to the new guard’s retreating footsteps. 

His palms are flat and still against his knees. He waits for the men to dismiss him.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, when it becomes obvious they won’t think of it. “My master will want me back tonight.”

“Then why keep him waiting?” the taller one says, jostling him with a foot. “Go on, get lost.”

“Thank you, sir,” Noct says. He buttons up his jacket, wipes his mouth on the sleeve.

There’s a mutter of, “fuckin’ trash,” behind his back.

“Good for something, at least,” he hears the other one say.

When he reaches the General’s office, the General’s already there, along with Brigadier General Tummelt. Both men pore over documents at the table in full armor, the General colossal in the small space. He's received more guests lately, though precious few are permitted behind the mask. Noct knows he's not worthy to be counted among their number like he is. 

Noct sheds the uniform into the basket by the door and quickly joins them. He crawls to the General’s side just to be safe. The General doesn’t look up, but after a while, his distracted hand finds Noct’s hair. 

“Time for the party, pet,” the brigadier general says some time later in his chalk-scraping voice. His favorite is taking Noct slow and dry, leaving scratches down his back. “Come along.”

Noct stands to follow the brigadier general, who pauses before leaving the room. “General Glauca,” he says. “After the officers’ dinner, I’d like to borrow him for my ship.”

“So long as you return him, I couldn’t care less,” says the General.

Noct falls in step behind the brigadier general, eyes down, hands at his sides, as the man strides through the halls of the base. He can feel the plug inside him move with every step, even though it’s far from the largest of them. He’s meant to be just stretched and lubed enough that the first guests won’t chafe themselves pushing in. 

“The man of the hour!”

A laughing man with a wineglass is quick to greet the brigadier general when they arrive. Noct can’t remember his rank, only that he took a special delight in holding Noct’s limp cock and balls in one hand as he drove his own deep as it would go. Noct’s mouth waters with the knowledge he’ll be on it again before the night is through. 

The brigadier general notices his creeping red flush. “Oh? Getting excited, are you? Nasty thing,” he says. “Use your words.”

“I’m sorry, master,” Noct says, to the wineglass man, bowing his head. “This perverse slave was fantasizing about your cock.”

The General would have pushed him to be more eloquent, would have drawn out every shameful detail of the image in his head, but the brigadier general always tends toward instant gratification. Noct can get away with answering as directly as possible.

Wineglass man runs his free hand over Noct’s chest and shoulders, and Noct lets his reaction show on his face, gasping when the man brushes his sensitive tit. 

The brigadier general’s second approaches. They both ditch him there, with instructions to look after the party guests as he’s been brought to.

He starts with the wineglass man, who shoves his head in the sink in the extravagant marble bathroom and eats him out with a porcine earnestness. Noct whimpers and squirms while the man’s tongue works over his twitching hole. His stubble chafes at Noct’s perineum. Noct remembered right about his interests: he takes Noct in his hand and kneads him around, until Noct is dripping through his fingers, the closest he gets to hard anymore. Noct sucks them clean for him one at a time. 

The next officer walks in on them in the bathroom. He takes Noct for a urinal, then bends him back over the same sink and fucks him, fast and impersonal. 

“You enjoy it, don’t you? You want this big dick to break you in half?” The man adjusts angle, smacks him, and Noct whines his affirmation.

“Thank you, master,” he gasps, bruising his cheek on the faucet. ‘This slave - _ah_ \- doesn’t deserve your cock.”

He’s left with his first load of the night, his plug stuffed sloppily back in, and another slap on the ass. Noct makes his way through the dinner offering his mouth and pucker to those in attendance. He’s the only one of his kind. It’s not long before the food’s put away and there’s a group of men the General’s age loitering around him with their drinks.

They touch him, his stomach and legs and arms, the soles of his feet, firm and fit from the General’s strict exercise regimen. His dick and balls are pawed at, jerked half-erect and then smacked, the ring yanked and twisted. He gasps.

“How does that feel?” a man says.

“It feels, f-feels good, master,” Noct replies. A hand comes down on his swollen balls. He bites his lip.

“Convince us you want it. Ask me to do it again.”

“Please, more pain for your slave’s undeserving cock.”

He gets his wish. 

“You want it?” the next says. “Want a real man up your loose little cocksleeve?”

“Yes, gods, pl- _fuck_ , please, master,” Noct cries out. As the man shoves into him, he rocks himself back into it. “Thank you master, thank you,” he says, while an onlooker comes on his chest.

He’s tossed on his back on a table, head hanging over at a painful angle to accommodate one man riding his face, legs spread as far as they’ll go at the other end for a second. The loose crowd around him guides his hands to their cocks and he works them blindly. He’s drooling around the meat in his mouth. His body bounces back and forth impaled on them like an empty doll.

All he can see at this angle is an old man’s knees. He knows the others are watching, all getting off on his debasement. They pant like a pack of wolves. Someone rubs their cock against his nipple, and the pressure on his tender, enflamed skin makes his dick jump in place. They notice, and like magic there’s someone at his other side doing the same thing. He writhes where they pin him. He can’t get enough.

“Yeshh, shhhir,” he purrs on command to a bearded old admiral, squirming atop his thigh, mumbling against the man’s hair as his beard and teeth dig into the bare part of Noct’s neck. “So, hh, hot, fuck, please, come in me–”

He doesn’t know how many, how long. The night blurs into other nights, other parties, as he accumulates their cum inside and out. Someone pours a glass out on his back. He cleans it from the floor to jeers.

At some point, Noct passes out. He doesn’t hear the gunfire.

 

* * *

 

 

Noct wakes from a dream of a fishing boat sinking through the clouds.

He’s in a strange bedroom. Ostentatious. Art on the wall. It’s got a familiar templated feel about it. It could be one of a dozen suites he’s been passed through in Gralea, except that the windows are all wrong. They’re the biggest he’s ever seen.

Even stranger, he’s in the bed, tucked up under the covers. His ass is empty. It feels wrong. When he reaches up to scratch at his neck, his fingers meet slightly tacky bare skin.

He sits up. They’ve put him in clothes, too. Matched pajamas, like the brigadier general wears, in black. Expensive, and far too big on him – he can’t make out the shape of his nipples through the cloth. Noct’s heart jackhammers. Where is he?

The door opens.

“Noctis?”

After so long, the name lands like a bullet to the chest. Noct flinches. He jumps out of the bed. Without the weight of the collar, it feels just a little too sudden and short. He overbalances, knows he’s already looking the clumsy slave. He hurries to the brigadier general’s feet, licking his lips to prepare. The man locks the door and turns around, and Noct reaches eagerly for his belt.

But the man grasps his wrist. Noct’s hands are gently pried from the front of the man’s trousers. That’s when Noct notices his boots. They bear the bloody red soles of a king-lover.

He hasn’t been given to the brigadier general after all. He’s been bought, or perhaps won, by his master’s enemies.

The stranger releases his grip. Noct plants his hands on the carpet, and brings his forehead down to meet them. Ten thousand hours of the General’s stories, of the legendary cold-bloodedness of Lucian nobility, roar through his ears. “Forgive this troublesome-”

“Stop, please. You _aren't_. And you aren’t in trouble,” the stranger interrupts, sounding pained. “Noctis–”

He cringes again at the name, and can’t hide it. He can’t tell what kind of master this man will be, so he doesn’t know what form his punishment will take. Not knowing is dangerous.

"Do you mind telling me why you tried to do that?" the stranger asks him quietly.

Of course, he does know better than to lie.

“I-“ he says, and leaves just a beat to see whether his new master objects to his use of the pronoun. The stranger waits. “I thought you were the brigadier general, master.”

“I see,” the stranger says. His tone has gone guarded, and Noct doesn’t know what to make of that. “So you typically, erm, greet this brigadier general in - in such a manner? And do sit up, if you please.”

“Yes, master,” says Noct. He cautiously sits back on his heels. “And you, if that’s what you want.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, master.”

In his peripheral vision, he can just see the man’s mouth twist in a frown. The man walks around Noct’s side and settles himself at the end of the bed. He pats the duvet beside him. “That won’t be necessary. Come here, take a seat. We've got much to talk about.”

Noct rises. What is he doing wrong? Has he already blundered this first meeting with his new master beyond repair? The General had been generous to take him in, he's always known that, but usually they're able to bring themselves to find _something_ appealing. He starts to climb into the man’s lap, sliding the baggy pants down, a roll of his hips to the motion.

The man clears his throat and pulls Noct’s waistband back up. Noct finds himself redirected to sit side-by-side with the strange man, hands carefully folded in his still-clothed lap. He feels exposed without his collar.

“There are a few things–” the man pauses. “…Would you mind looking up for me?”

“Yes, master,” Noct says. He lifts his head. Taking a gamble, he looks the man in the eye. He’s rewarded with a transparent approval that springs straight up the man’s spine.

Must have chosen right. He warms from the positive feedback. Noct lets himself use his order as an excuse to take in his new master’s face.

The man might be hardly older than he is. His long features are marked by bangs brushed back from his face and spectacles over eyes like sea glass. From the look on his face, he might be the type to stay kind, which is already one up on the BG. He’s wearing gloves, and Noct wants to taste the leather on his tongue.

The man puts his hand on Noct’s shoulder. All of his attention is on Noct now, and no longer in the form of that disapproving look. Quite the opposite. The man’s gentle gaze goes straight to Noct’s pathetic dick. He can already picture it: mouthing the man hard through his pants, demonstrating his gratitude for the night in the bed with his mouth, with his ass, riding the new master on the end of the bed. His body’s already reacting to the vivid mental image of his new master leaning over him, pinning him down on the soft bed.

Noct leans into the touch with lidded eyes, reaches for his new master’s face. Again, his attempt to provide what the man wants is intercepted. His new master holds him at arm’s length, regarding him again with that too-neutral stare.

“No,” the man says, and the word sends Noct plummeting. Only the man’s fast grip restrains him from throwing himself to his feet once more.

“Forgive my arrogance, master,” he says. “How would you like me?”

“I have absolutely no interest in - in coercing you further. Please. I hate to hear you using that word,” the man says, a shade pinker. “And no one else shall. You’re safe, Noctis. Do you know where you are?”

“Your…room?” Catching sight of his new master’s stiff jaw, he hastily adds, “I mean, your room, master.”

“Once more, I would prefer you not call me that. No. We are in a guest suite in the Crown Citadel. I take it you don’t know who I am?”

Noct chances a glance. “… Crownsguard?”

He barely catches himself before voicing the automatic _master_ aloud. It pays off when he doesn’t have to be corrected again, though. His new master has removed his glasses and is massaging the bridge of his nose. “You’re not incorrect, I suppose. We were – closely acquainted, as children. When word of your death in Tenebrae’s fall reached the Citadel, I was among those who grieved. My name is Ignis Scientia.”

Noct stares at his new master, suffocating in miles of clothing. His face is still that of a stranger, no lightning-strike revelation to ground the man’s insane words in reality, and yet the name itself touches something familiar.

It does remind him of, not quite someone, but imagination of someone at least, a vague big-brother ghost curled against him in the expanse of a far-too-wide bed, reading aloud over the drum of the rain. But when he tries to remember the past he also remembers the fire, and like smoke the thought dissipates before he can face it.

His new master, Ignis Scientia, continues. “Not until much later did finding you become my pursuit. Words cannot adequately express my remorse. The time it took, the harm that has come to you – the sort of rumors which lead us to finally – no, it should never have happened. But it’s over, Noc- Noctis. You realize that.”

His new master is still patiently regarding him. This overly-specific fantasy has gone so far into left field that Noct’s lost. He’s failed to play the part his master wants. Repeatedly. Persistently. The General would have taken his hide by now. The brigadier general would’ve at least taken his hole. But his new master hasn’t touched him, and the penny isn’t dropping. It’s still unclear what the correct response is. He doesn’t know what the memory was, what he’s supposed to say.

His new master must finally see what a moronic, braindead whore he’s picked up, because he tightens his grip on Noct’s shoulder. Noct braces himself for the first blow. Instead, Ignis lets go.

“Your Highness, you’re safe. You’ve come home.”


End file.
